Phoenix Rising (2 page)

Devilishly clever
, he thought to himself. He admired its chaos, its non-sequential anarchy which, one could argue, reflected what the House of Usher—

“You said you could solve it!” Braun was firing into the dust and debris—so obviously someone had survived. “Time is a bit of a luxury here, mate!”

A key. That was what he needed for this puzzle—something that would make sense of the dials. Wellington glanced up to the small window looking out to freedom, even if the freedom consisted of a vast wasteland of ice. That certainly explained her coat. A veil of snow obscured his vista, and the howl of the wind intensified. He needed to know more. Where the hell were they?

Yes, it was a rather silly question but it did matter. “Agent Braun—where exactly are you from, may I ask?”

Braun shot him an incredulous look. “Beg your pardon?”

“Where are you from, Agent Braun? I can tell by your dialect that you are not from any district of England—”

“Well, I'm not a Pom!” she spat before unleashing a volley of bullets. Books glanced over his shoulder to see the shadows stir and then grow still, but only for a moment as the dark moved again, this time shooting as they advanced.

“It would be jolly nice,” she shouted over the gunfire she shared with the oncoming soldiers, “if you'd do something useful!”

“Where—are—you—” Wellington insisted.

“New Zealand!” she shouted as she sheathed both spent pistols and then picked up two more from the ground, “More precisely, Wellington, if you must know!”

It made perfect sense. Send in a specialist—one familiar with the region.

“Where is our pickup to take place?”

“Just outside!” she shouted, firing off three rounds. “Airship is going to swing by the fortress and pick us up!”

“And did you give them coordinates?”

“Why bother?” she scoffed before shooting again. “This is the only dark fortress within sight of Mount Erebus. Would be hard to miss!”

Wellington quickly turned back to the door and began muttering to himself. Geographic location. Height. Summit elevation. Yes, he was certain. This was what he did, after all, for Queen and Country. And then finally, his fingers began turning dials.

He had dialed the final entry—“E”—into the lock when he heard a pair of dull thuds behind him. Wellington looked over his shoulder to see his Angel from the Colonies pick up the last two pistols, the ones she had been brandishing when she first appeared in his cell. Beautiful things, they were: the barrels were of gleaming brass and their handles appeared to be ivory inlaid with a deep green stone. Others might have mistaken the decoration for jade, but Wellington recognised they were the sacred stone of New Zealand—
pounamu
. Before she grasped them completely, he noted the design: a Hei-Hei, a powerful good-luck symbol. The wearer of this tiki was considered clear thinking, clever, and dedicated to a cause, their greatest strength being character.

“What's with the smile, Books?”

Yes, he was smiling at her. Fancy that.

“I thought it would be nice to catch an airship,” Wellington said proudly. “No need to keep the hired help waiting.”

The latch came down with a quick groan and sharp thud. Agent Braun blinked at the sudden light flooding their corridor. The wind was colder and sharper than he could have expected, but it was an exhilarating feeling.

“How did you—”

Wellington motioned to the dials, now clear in the blinding white of this continent's eternal winter. The lock display read 77°31'48" S, 167°10'12" E.

“Bloody hell, Books,” Braun shook her head, replacing the cannon she referred to as Katerina back into her back holster. “Did you just pull those numbers out of your arse?”

“Madam, this is what I do. I am an—”

A bullet struck the open door, showering them with sparks. Eliza answered the shot with three of her own. “I got it the first time—you're an archivist! Move it!” She slapped a pair of tinted goggles into his stomach. “You'll need these or you won't see a bloody thing. Lucky for you I carry a spare.”

The climate had a sobering effect. Needles of cold tore through his suit pants and shoes. Agent Eliza Braun and her entirely unfeminine garb, however, made easy work of the snow.

“You didn't happen to bring a spare
coat
with you, Agent Braun?”

Eliza didn't reply. At first. “Sorry, mate. I needed to travel light.”

Travel light? A small arsenal of handguns, throwing knives, sticks of dynamite, and that small cannon strapped to her back was traveling
light
?

Wellington's discomfort dissipated at the sight of the airship rumbling towards them, a rope ladder dangling from the bottom of its cabin. He spared a glance behind them to see the fortress's massive main doors opening like some great maw, expelling soldiers properly attired for the weather and armoured transports rumbling alongside them. Atop the stronghold's battlements, massive cannons were coming to bear.

Wellington shook his head, looking up at the airship. “They'll shoot us down before we can—”

Her grin was both wide and unsettling as she snaked her arm into the rope ladder. “Just hold on to me, Welly!”

Welly?

Agent Braun pulled his arms tight around her waist. She then fired up at the airship, her bullet striking close to what appeared to be a purposefully painted bullseye. With the ring of a distant
clunk
, they were both hoisted through the cold, the speed of their ascent quite knocking the remaining breath out of Books. The ride upward suddenly stopped, and Wellington felt himself slip free. He scrambled to avoid falling to his death, latching onto what was immediately at hand.

It was only when Braun called out “Lads, pull me in quick, or this bookworm is going to ruin my favorite bodice!” that Wellington realised what he was hanging onto. He was caught between etiquette and death for quite the longest moment of a rather extraordinary day.

A sudden heave from the crewmembers, and Wellington was finally able to free his grip. The redness in his cheeks would take far longer to subside however. The only hint of cold now was the floor they remained sprawled across. In Wellington's ears came a low rumbling sound. Engines. Propellers. The airship was now listing sharply.

He looked up to see Agent Braun looking out of a porthole. The bodice appeared to be stretched a bit, but it was still intact. For some reason, Wellington took relief in that. Groaning, he picked himself up from the floor of the hold and joined her at the window.

“That was quite invigorating.” She pulled out the two vanity pistols and chuckled. “Between them, four bullets left. You know how to show a lady to a good time.”

“One moment, Agent Braun,” Wellington said, trying to regain something of his composure. “You said you chose ordnance over additional Ministry-sponsored personnel. So where are these explosives?!”

“Where I left them, naturally.”

The stronghold's centre erupted as Mount Erebus would have done in its heyday. The cannons threatening to pluck them from the chilly heavens instead toppled back as plumes of fire and black smoke bellowed upward. Wellington could make out enemy soldiers attempting to flee, but a second explosion rocked the fortress. Another gout of fire tossed debris in all directions; and then in what appeared to be the opening of Satan's Dominion itself, the fortress vanished in a ball of orange fire and pitch-black smoke. Their airship listed again, only to right itself moments later. Through the porthole, they both could see the icy landscape of Antarctica scarred by darkness, destruction, and death.

Wellington looked at Agent Braun as if for the first time.

“Good Lord, woman. You are an idiot!”

CHAPTER TWO
In Which Our Plucky Pepperpot Eliza D. Braun
Must Pay the Piper for Her Feats of Derring-Do!

E
liza D. Braun hated to be wrong, yet she would not be accused of being a coward either. She reached the low line of warehouse buildings right on the edge of the River Thames and crossed over the street as quickly as possible.
The anticipation is the worst of it
, she told herself. Her conscience was something that she thought she'd been rid of years ago, yet events of the last week had proven that assumption a mistake.

The no-nonsense sharp lettering above the open doorway of the warehouse at the beginning of the row proclaimed, “Miggins Antiquities: Finest Imports from the Empire.” Carts piled high rolled through the large door that led to the unpacking and storage warehouse, while workers and customers used the smaller entrance to the showroom and offices. Eliza tugged her long tweed, masculine coat around her against a strange, sudden chill, and went in via the latter entrance.

As always the smell of musty old artefacts hit her first. She shook her head and sneezed like a cat. By God, it was always dusty down here on the ground floor. Thank goodness it was not where she had her office. This was merely the front for the Ministry, but why imports? Why not a perfumery or a boutique?

Or a bakery.
That
would have been
heavenly
.

She nodded to those workers who had no choice but to slave away down here. However, with their noses buried in ledgers and correspondences they didn't even notice. They never did. Perhaps
that
was the reason for the chosen front.

A short flight of stairs led to agents' offices, and Eliza felt she could breathe again, finally free of the reek of old, dead things. The office behind the oak door was utilitarian but pleasant enough. Twelve leather-topped desks were laid out in the block pattern, and as always Eliza's eye was drawn to the only one that was not piled with papers. She had yet to accept Harrison's handsome face would no longer be there to welcome her. Never again.

Closing the door quietly behind her she made for her own desk, attempting not to disturb her fellow agents. Currently there were only two of the team in—the rest conducting their business in the field, where she wished she were right now. This was only where the painful paperwork was conducted. All of them avoided it as best they could. Agent Hill, from the dominion of Canada, was busy scribbling furiously in his ledger determined to get out of the office as soon as possible, but her colleague from Australia, Agent Campbell, leaned back in his chair and smiled at her.

Not today, please, not today
, she thought to herself.

Her prayer went unanswered. “Gidday, Liza.”

Bruce was not an unattractive man: tall, dark haired, with green eyes, just in fact the kind of male she went for. It was his unfortunate attempts at humour that stole away any possibility of a clandestine romance, and showed Bruce for what his true nature dictated. He was, without a doubt, a right git.

“Rough night out with the flock was it?”

Ah yes, the sheep jokes. Only iron willpower stopped her from kicking his chair out from under him. “Agent Campbell”—she leaned down and fixed him with her blue gaze—“you have no idea of the fun I have when you are not looking.”

His perfectly white teeth flashed in a face that was still tanned from the brighter sun of the Southern Hemisphere. He held up two tickets, wriggling them for emphasis in front of Eliza's eyes. “How about some fun
with
me then? Box seats to the latest play at the St. James Theatre. Thought we could have dinner after . . . or maybe breakfast. You know—seeing as we are southern cousins and all.”

It was just like Bruce to try and use the closeness of Australia and New Zealand for his own ends, only moments after bringing up the sheep jokes. The only thing they shared, in truth, was being looked down on as “Colonials” by the Britons.

Hardly enough to push her into his loving-for-the-moment embrace. “I would rather get into a boxing ring with one of your kangaroos than wake up next to you, Bruce. I thought I had explained this clearly a number of times.” She strode past him and took off her coat and hung it on the polished rack. She knew full well that Bruce was looking at her rear end appreciatively—it was the one negative of dressing in masculine pants, shirt, and vest. However, the freedom of movement it allowed her was worth it. Truthfully displaying her assets was something she was never shy about.

He waited until she had sat down at her desk before announcing, “The Fat Man upstairs wants to see you.”

“You mean Doctor Sound?” Eliza shot in sharp reply.

Agent Campbell waved his hand, “You call him what you like—he's ‘Fat Man' to me. Blimmin' stuck-up toff.” He pulled out a slip of paper and slapped it down in front of her. Eliza recognised Shillingworth's precise handwriting proclaiming:

9 o'clock sharp. Please be prompt.

Eliza cleared her throat, stood up, and pulled out the pocket watch from her vest. “Probably wants to congratulate me on my last mission.”

It was 9:03.
Damn
.

Bruce's snort of disbelief still managed to reach her ears as she sprinted across the office. The lift to the other floors was concealed behind oak paneling at the end of the corridor. Eliza slipped through the secret entranceway, inserted the tiny clockwork locket from around her neck into the keyhole, and punched the call button. While she stood in the tiny antechamber, the sound of motors and gears humming low, her mind raced.

The director of the Ministry only commented on missions for two reasons: if they had been exceptionally smooth and successful, or if they had been a total disaster. Eliza's previous missions were always successful but never smooth—this was not the first time she'd been called up to the Director's office.

After taking a long breath she stepped into the lift, closed the outer gate, and set the Chadburn to “Director's Office.” The short ride seemed to go on for an age. This top floor was the sole domain of Doctor Basil Sound, head of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. It opened into a small waiting room, with the razor-sharp Miss Shillingworth guarding the doorway to his office. The white-blonde-haired young woman took her duties as a secretary very seriously and with the efficiency of a woman twice her age. At the moment of Eliza's appointment, though, she was struggling to shove armfuls of brown folders into the chute that would deposit them to the Archives. Her stern ice-chip eyes darted to Eliza, but apart from that she did not acknowledge the agent's existence. The only sound in the office was that of air hissing loud and hard. Eliza's gaze shot over to the network of pneumatic tubes, all labeled a variety of locations—House of Parliament, House of Lords, Ministry of War, and many, many more. She took a covert glance at the new arrival. This cylinder, courtesy of the Thames Pneumatic Dispatch, had come from Buckingham Palace. Perhaps, a reprieve from Her Majesty?

“
Doctor Sound
,” Eliza could hear Queen Vic say in her recently arrived proclamation, “
upon hearing of your scheduled reprimand of Agent Eliza D. Braun, We are not amused.
”

Shillingworth let out an exasperated sigh as files tumbled to the floor. While Eliza enjoyed seeing the cool secretary in such a pickle, she wasn't about to wait for her say-so.

Eliza made sure her dark russet hair was still tucked neatly into a braid, and then strode to the door while her bravery held. She caught a brief glimpse of Shillingworth looking up from the floor. Eliza thought she heard the secretary call out to her, but too late. Refusing to keep the Director waiting, the agent shoved the door open.

The Turkish carpet of the Director's lavish office muffled much of the ambiance of East End's docklands. Thick draperies at the windows did a remarkably efficient job of shutting out the comings and goings on the river as well, giving this private chamber a heaviness that would have passed for silence on any other day at the Ministry.

It appeared to Eliza, though, that this was not “any other day” as the office's décor seemed to pronounce the argument between Doctor Sound and a tall, imposing man opposite of his desk.

“—while the Queen remains uncertain on this matter,” continued the tower of a man, his index finger tapping against Sound's desk. “I assure you I do not.”

A strange expression danced on Doctor Sound's face—one that Eliza had never seen. True anger.

Eliza's jaw snapped shut on her half-prepared explanation.

She would have much rather been back in Antarctica with the smell of gunpowder, earth, and sweat in her nostrils than here witnessing this. So intense was their discussion they hadn't noticed her enter, and Eliza was sure she was about to find out something extremely interesting about her superior.

That was until Shillingworth burst in. The cracks in her icy demeanor were perfectly visible as she actually yanked on Eliza's arm. “I am sorry, Doctor Sound, she just barged in without asking.”

The Director turned in their direction, his portly figure surprising agile. “Agent Braun, I trust you have an explanation for bursting into my office?” His voice was mild, but she couldn't mistake its dark undertone.

Eliza's stomach clenched. “The note said promptly at nine. I was running a bit late this morning.”

Doctor Sound glanced to the other side of his office and nodded. “Ah, yes, I did say nine o'clock, didn—”

“You must be Agent Eliza D. Braun, our operative we
inherited
from the South Pacific office,” the tall man interjected, his voice coated with a film of civility that sent goose flesh along Eliza's arms. “How appropriate . . . since we were just talking about you.” Unlike the Director, this man was strikingly handsome, with strong hawklike features and a salt-and-pepper beard. As he strode towards her, she noticed he was dressed better than Sound as well.

Though her mind was whirling, Eliza tilted her head and held out her hand. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I don't believe we have been introduced.”

He smiled at that, before bowing and taking her fingertips, “Peter Lawson, Duke of Sussex.”

The name was familiar—even to Eliza. “Private Secretary to Her Majesty, the Queen. We are indeed honoured.” She smiled, and hoped this would prove to Doctor Sound that she knew exactly how to manage the peerage. Maybe he would forget those past incidents.

His grin was unsettling—the grin of someone who knew something she didn't. Suddenly his handsomeness made less of an impression on her. Suddenly she disliked him. Intensely.

He could read her discomfort and enjoyed it—that much was obvious as he turned back to the Director. “I trust you will take my advice, Basil.” And then with that, he spun on his heel and left the office.

For a moment Doctor Sound, Eliza, and Miss Shillingworth stood there, awkward in the sudden silence. The rhythmic
tick tock
of the clock over the mantel only added to the mood. Finally, with a sigh Doctor Sound took a seat at his massive desk.

“Thank you, Miss Shillingworth,” he began. “Please, Agent Braun,” and he motioned to a chair in front of his desk.

Eliza swallowed hard and crossed the office to settle in what would have been, perhaps on any other call to the Director's office, a very comfortable chair. However, the chair was warm. It was still holding on to the Duke of Sussex. That thought made her skin crawl. Eliza hoped Doctor Sound didn't notice her squirm.

The stack of ledgers and folders before the Doctor would have made any lesser man give up in despair. Doctor Sound, Eliza remained most assured, was not a lesser man. He took off his glasses and fixed her with a sharp grey gaze. She felt as effectively pinned as a butterfly in the British Museum. “Agent Braun, as you may guess, you have put me in a rather sticky position.”

Eliza wanted to enquire what exactly one of the highest-ranked officials was doing in the Director's office, and enquire why he was so miffed. However, she could guess the answer to the second question.

Unfortunately, the seat in front of Doctor Sound was a perch she was very familiar with, and that familiarity gave her a kind of badly placed courage. “I know what you are going to say, Doctor Sound . . .”

“Really?” He folded his hands before him. “Then, please, enlighten me.”

“I know I made some snap decisions in the field without proper clearance.” The words tumbled out of her mouth.

The Doctor held up his hand. “Is that what field agents are calling insubordination these days—snap decisions?” He readjusted his glasses and pulled two fistfuls of folders towards him. “Let us review some of your other ‘snap decisions,' shall we?”

When he opened them Eliza felt all hope fade. On the front was her name, and she knew very well what was inside. She sat very still and waited for the axe to fall. The glint Eliza had seen in Sussex's eye haunted her.

“Let me see—the wanton destruction by explosion of the Duke of Pembroke's country estate . . .”